Gravity's Chain (10 page)

P
olly's wedding was from start to finish an epic—a Ben Hur of the marriage world, an expensive style setter for the three girls who would follow and no detail left to chance. I couldn't help but feel that furtive glances were cast at Mary and me as though sizing us up for the next instalment, much like an undertaker measuring potential clients at a cocktail party. Polly and David married in St Patrick's, a beautiful and calm oasis amid the glass horrors of the city. The guests were well groomed and dressed for the occasion, everyone resplendent in the sun reflecting off the white walls of the church. It was a meeting of the beautiful people. They sauntered inside as if they owned the place. Lilies decorated the end of every pew, blooms of white against the wood. The ceremony was crisp and culminated in ‘Ave Maria' sung by a ten-year-old cousin. Half an hour later, after a car procession that reminded me of a royal tour, we were drinking our first champagne of the reception. The sun was still fierce and I sweated in my suit.

‘So you must be Jack.' I shook the outstretched hand. ‘I'm Caroline, Mary's sister. We haven't met before.'

‘Yes, I recognise you. Nice to meet you.'

‘I've heard a lot about you.'

‘All good, I hope.' She held on to my fingers, only reluctantly letting go when I tugged them free. She was stunning in her bridesmaid dress, slim but with shape, her blonde hair curled and held by a braid embroidered with small blue flowers.

‘All good, Jack—there's no need to worry.'

‘That's great.' I was embarrassed at her focused attention.

‘God, every time I see Mary she's on about you and Cambridge—“Jack this, Jack that”, it's hard to get away from you at times. Still, it sounds like you're having an amazing time there. Are you? I mean I'd love to hear all about it.'

‘I'll look forward to that.'

‘I shall seek you out for a dance after dinner, Jack Mitchell, so you watch out. I've never danced with a genius before and when I woke this morning I said to myself, this is the day. Now you wouldn't disappoint a poor girl, would you?' She smiled, revealing a perfect row of straight, bright white teeth.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for the wedding supper.'

Caroline tugged my elbow and pulled me toward a table near the dance floor. ‘This is you, Jack—I checked where you were sitting earlier. I'm afraid you get relegated to the minor family table. A few more years and you may make it to the top table. See you later.'

‘Look forward to that.'

Caroline was certainly on the mark about the other guests at my table. They were minor nobility all right—cousins and friends only wheeled out on such occasions and a strange man called Jonathan Martin whom everyone knew but no one seemed to like. Despite several attempts to understand
where he fitted in, the explanation eluded me. Cousin Keith rolled his eyes every time Jonathan spoke, revealing his dislike of the man. Later I learnt Jonathan had served in Vietnam with Mary's father, an experience both men never discussed but which forged a friendship neither wished to relinquish. Others might dislike Jonathan, but for as long as old man Roberts was picking up the bill his old mate was always welcome. The story left me with a pang of jealousy that people could experience such closeness.

When the golden summer evening light finally faded, gaudy flashing lights took its place and the soft chatter and rolling waves succumbed to the bass line of a Donna Summer song. I could almost hear the sigh of disdain from the older guests and whoop of delight from the younger ones. Like me, they had gritted their teeth and endured the small table talk of dinner and sat through the speeches, ignoring numb bottoms and sweaty discomfort in unfamiliar clothes, waiting for this moment of release. Mary grimaced as she walked to me in tight shoes and after her first steps kicked them off and danced in bare feet.

They played all the old favourites—classic Beatles, some Bee Gees, Abba greats and some rock'n'roll for the faithful oldies who ventured to mix it with the younger brigade. I could cope with most of these, but not with ‘Mull of Kintyre'.

‘Come on, Jack.'

‘No Mary, not this, please, I draw the line at this one.'

But she was pulling me away from the window and onto the insanely overpopulated dance floor. Her feet were black at the sides from dirt.

‘Don't you like this?' she quizzed as she pulled me to her and nuzzled my neck.

‘In one word—no.'

She pulled away and looked at me with genuine amazement. ‘Really? I love this song. You know I think Paul McCartney is great. He's my favourite Beatle.'

‘That may well be right, but “Mull of bloody Kintyre”, please.'

‘Oh, come on, grumpy, give me a cuddle.' She pulled me closer and kissed my cheek.

The pace picked up after the grisly song. We danced wildly and gyrated to ‘Dancing Queen', which brought the sweat from me in great rivers. I relinquished my place on the cramped floor and elbowed my way outside for some fresh air and the chance to cool down. The breeze was refreshing on my face and wet shirt. There was a terrace at the side, one end lit, but the other half was deep in shadow. Caroline sat there smoking a cigarette.

‘So here you are, Einstein.'

‘Here I am.' Given my new status as a drinker I'd drunk a fair number of beers as well as wine. Of course, it was more than I was used to and my head was spinning as I stood looking at her. She had changed and now wore a simple blue summer dress with a subtle white pattern. The soft material caught in the breeze and billowed around her legs. Her hair was down now and looked lighter. This was the first time I'd really looked at her rather than merely acknowledging her presence. She was prettier than Mary (a wickedly guilty thought), her features softer, her eyes clearer and wider. There was no mistaking she was Mary's sister, but she was like an improved version—a coupe to Mary's four-door saloon.

‘Where's my dance?'

‘Any time, I'm all yours.'

‘I hope so.' She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

I was entering dangerous shark-infested waters. This was the time to turn back, the time to hang on to the last outcrop of land before I was swept away.

Caroline cocked her head, like a dog listening for a master's whistle. ‘This should do.' Frankie Goes to Hollywood, ‘The Power of Love', filtered from the dance room, which was only half full now. The lights were low and I tried to hold her at a respectable distance, but she moved closer, placing her hands on my shoulder. ‘So tell me, Einstein, what's it actually like to be a genius?'

‘Oh, you know.'

‘No I don't actually, that's why I asked and yes, before you say it, I'm interested, really interested. I mean it must be weird talking to people all the time who are just, well, you know, a whole lot more stupid than you.'

‘It doesn't really work like that.'

‘Oh come on, it must do. Don't be shy, I can take the truth. I mean we all have different gifts, we can't all be brilliant at everything.'

‘What are you good at?'

‘Painting, actually. I paint and I think I'm pretty good. Do you paint?'

‘No.'

‘Any good at drawing?'

‘No.'

‘Well, there you go then. You're crap at art and I'm good. I'm crap at maths and you're good. Doesn't really matter though, does it? So go on, be honest.'

‘I'm not sure I really follow.'

‘Shit, nor do I. I'm just trying to get you to talk to me about life as a fucking genius.'

‘Most of the time it's fine, really.'

‘But?'

‘But there are times when it's frustrating, times when I yearn for someone to share thoughts with, to talk to about the sheer creative joy of physics.'

‘Joy?'

‘Yes, joy, the excitement of thinking at the edge, you know, of stepping right up to the boundary of human knowledge and then going beyond it. There can be nothing as exhilarating, as passionate, as creative as that moment. Who understands that, though, without knowing quantum physics or relativity or event horizons?'

‘Hey, I can't pretend to know what those things are like, but I know about the joy of creation. When I'm painting and I catch the essence of what I'm searching for, there are no words that can explain that feeling and, like you say, all I want is to share the moment, to be with someone who understands that feeling without having to put it into words.'

‘My God, you understand what I mean. Essence, I like that, it's a wonderful word.'

‘I may not be as smart as you, Jack, but I fucking know how you feel.'

We danced for a moment without further words. ‘What sort of painting do you do?'

‘Slightly abstract, but ideas rooted in the everyday that transcend what you'd normally expect. Not unlike what you do in a way—trying to look at well-known things in a new way, trying to push the boundaries of the usual understating of an
object. Why don't you come round and have a look sometime.'

‘I'd love to.'

Two days later I visited Caroline in her Titirangi home. It was set back from other houses with bush surrounding it on all sides. Once off the road it felt as though I was swallowed by greenery. The paving stones of the driveway were cracked and uneven, the encroaching trees of the bush out of control. A wooden deck encircled the house. It started on the driveway side of the building, but the land fell away so steeply at the rear that when I stood at the back rail the grass was more than four metres below. Now I was above the bush that only seconds before had engulfed me. There was a clear view of the city some fifteen kilometres away. Cicadas sang below and the smell of the trees was fresh. The back of the house had sliding doors, which were open, and I could see Caroline kneeling on the floor, hunched over paper on which she was drawing with a charcoal stick, her arms rotating in sweeps. She moved with urgency, but she was graceful, as though her drawing was in itself an artistic performance. Her hair, once tied up, had started to slip and strands of gold fell to her cheeks. As she worked, a spare hand pushed the strands behind her ears, but they soon came loose again. Suddenly she stopped working and stepped back to appraise the drawing. Her head was cocked to one side in the same way as when she stood on the terrace at the wedding just a couple of days before. Reluctantly I let the moment go and knocked on the window. Without hesitation, as though expecting my visit, she waved me inside. It was hot and there was a strong smell of smoke and dope in the room.

‘Jack, how wonderful to see you.' She half ran to me and planted a wet lingering kiss on my cheek, just millimetres from the corner of my mouth. Beautiful and erotic, she smelt of perfume
and sweat, drink and smoke. Smudges of charcoal marked her face and a loose shirt revealed most of her braless breasts. When she walked they moved playfully, excited to be free, delighted to be so gorgeous. ‘Come and see.' She took my hand and led me to the picture on the floor. It was large, a metre and a half square. In one corner she had drawn a dish with fruit, in another a fish and in the middle a goblet. They all rested on an abstract table. ‘It's a Last Supper representation. What do you think?'

‘Great.' I wasn't sure. I mean, the drawing was good, but it was just a bowl of fruit, a fish and a cup. It seemed a long way from the Last Supper, or any supper for that matter.

‘It represents the simplicity of the early church in contrast to the great edifice built by the early church fathers—as represented by the Da Vinci Last Supper, which I'll incorporate in miniature somewhere, just not sure where yet.'

‘Yes, I see.'

‘You don't like it, do you?'

‘I do like it. Yes I like it very much. I think once you get the miniature on it will clarify its meaning better.'

‘Fancy a drink?'

‘Love one, thank you.'

‘What's your tipple then, Jack? What do geniuses drink?'

‘You choose.'

‘Now you might regret that.' She scurried off to the kitchen where I heard her opening and shutting cupboards with some gusto. I looked again at the picture, conjuring again the sight of her working. Scattered all over the floor, on chairs and beside the drawing, were open art books. I squatted to look, but Caroline was back from the kitchen before I turned any pages.

‘Here.'

I took the glass and drank. ‘Wow, what the hell is that?' I coughed with the bite of the liquor on the back of my throat. I looked at the clear liquid as ice broke in the glass.

‘Tequila.'

‘I like it.'

‘Good, it's the drink of the artist.' She nodded to the books on the floor, her head to one side in her now familiar pose. ‘I like working with great pictures around me—Raphael, Da Vinci, Van Gogh.' She paused and moaned as she looked at a picture of a Van Gogh wheat field, ‘Man, I love him. I know you may find this hard to understand, but sometimes I feel this kind of…wind blowing off them and it engulfs me in this creative storm. There are times I don't even draw, I just sit and surrender myself. I close my eyes and I'm in Florence, or Paris, or Rome, walking the streets, modelling naked for the masters, painting, laughing with the artists, fucking them and sharing all their joys and sadness, success and failure.' She closed her eyes as though she was half there already.

Her words touched my core. I thought such feelings were mine alone, but now I'd learnt she shared them. ‘I know just what you mean. Christ, it's just like at the wedding—you seem to really know some truths. Where does it come from, Caroline?'

She touched her heart. ‘Do you ever feel like that?'

‘When I went to Cambridge and started walking through the old colleges I just felt this amazing resonance from the walls, as though the intelligence of everyone who had been there before me had soaked into them. And when I saw Newton's old rooms at Trinity, it was as though a shadow of the man was burnt onto the walls. I cried, you know, to be there, where he worked and lived. I felt the same as you described, as if there was this…not
so much wind, more a force entering my head, and I glimpsed something indefinable, some basic creative essence. Your word again.'